Pius sat at the head of the table while his cardinals chatted all around him. Their voices overlapped with one another, all talking about how best to handle this problem. Alistair of Veymont, presumed by most to be the author of all these pamphlets, had dug in his heels at the church’s request for him to publicly recant all of what he wrote in the Six Errors at threat of excommunication. Now, he was rallying the people in peaceful protest. He called for those all around the nation to withhold tithes for every diocese with an absentee bishop.

  As he sat, Pius began to hear one word in particular. Council. His cardinals spoke of bringing forth an ecumenical council, where all bishops of the church would debate the writings of Alistair every day and discuss reforms. It would be a grand public show to combat what was being distributed. That was what had originally been planned, after all.

  Pius slammed his fist on the table. “A council?!” he shouted. “That time has passed. This is war!”

  The whole table went silent as they saw Pius’ composure break. He regretted it not moments after, but his rage had overtaken him for a moment.

  “The archbishop is right,” Pius’ cousin, Cardinal Antoine, agreed. “We can’t bend on this. Bend too far, you’re broken.”

  “Well said,” concurred Pius’ nephew.

  “You two would say that,” one cardinal pointed out the obvious fact.

  “Let’s not act as though your son didn’t become a monsignor at the age of eighteen, Carlos,” another cardinal spoke up.

  “Enough,” Pius said, his composure regained. His eloquent tongue quickly mustered a response. "Who is this person, that he should set himself above the holy tradition of the Eternal Church which has stood firm for over a thousand years? Will we cast aside the wisdom of saints and councils for the pride of a single man? The Eternal Word itself declares that no prophecy is of private interpretation… yet this Alistair does precisely that, violating the very scripture he cites!"

  Robust agreement followed. Pius, for all his faults, was still a practiced speaker and a well-read theologian.

  “First, we must put our house in order,” Pius said. “Whoever published that list of our bastards and the various faults of those sitting at this table… they’re clearly a well-read and well-connected individual. Alistair alone, if indeed he was the writer, couldn’t have achieved what he has. Someone is aiding him. We need to find out who our enemy is. I can handle that. But!”

  Pius looked between his cardinals. “We can’t allow this fire to spread any longer. Speak to the nobility. Prevail upon them to pressure the printing houses that are putting out this… drivel. Remind them that their right to rule descends from the grace of divinity alone.”

  Most nodded, feeling that was sensible.

  “We won’t arrange an ecumenical council,” Pius said firmly. “I have sway in the royal court. We’ll push for a Royal Diet, where Alistair be denounced as the heretic that he is and burnt at the stake with the weight of the crown. Let him serve as a demonstration for others.”

  ***

  Gaspar walked into Pius’ study. “You called for me, archbishop.”

  Pius, consumed with his work, hadn’t even noticed Gaspar’s arrival before he spoke. The archbishop looked up with dark circles under his eyes, scanning him.

  “Took you long enough.” The archbishop stood up and retrieved a stack of papers elsewhere in the room. He rang a bell for a servant, and one very quickly emerged. He handed off the papers, then walked over to Gaspar. He held out one of the papers that had been on top of the stack.

  “Here,” Pius said, allowing Gaspar to pick the paper from his hands. “Memorize how this paper looks. These are going to be distributed throughout the capital soon, and I want your people to take action when the time is right.”

  Gaspar read over the paper, his eyebrows furrowing as he went deeper and deeper into the text. It was nothing less than an unabashed criticism of the king, and even went so far as to suggest that his death would be preferable to his continued reign. It lamented the glorious reign of Edgar II, who Claude had assassinated.

  “Archbishop… why do you have this? This is royal slander,” Gaspar asked, concerned.

  “As I said, these pamphlets are going to be distributed throughout the capital briefly before one makes it into the hands of the king. Once they do, they’ll rightfully be deemed treasonous. You’re going to carry out an investigation, and you’re going to link these papers to the printing houses that have been defaming the church. You’re going to implicate Duke Valerio as a major proponent of these printing houses.” Pius walked back behind his desk. “Then, you’re going to round up the people involved, and jail them.”

  “Archbishop…” Gaspar said uncertainly, reviewing the documents once more.

  “Unless you’re going to agree to my request, I don’t want to hear anything out of you,” Pius said, his voice a whip. “You do realize what’s happening, don’t you? This is war! People are warring against me. Unless I act decisively, ruthlessly, everything that I’ve—we’ve built will crumble to dust.”

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  “The link to the Duke of the Isles is tenuous at best, but these printers… these people could be executed, or worse!” Gaspar pointed out vigorously.

  Pius hesitated for a few moments, gathering his thoughts. When he spoke next, Gaspar flavored every word that he said with doubt. “There’s a new king ruling. This new king has proven himself to be far more merciful than Edgar II. You know that that’s not likely to happen.”

  Gaspar considered that. Having seen the actions of the new king firsthand, Gaspar thought it seemed likely that Claude would defer this matter to the royal council. And the council would certainly not be willing to tarnish royal authority in that fashion. The nobles, avid supporters of the church, would doubtlessly demand these printers be executed. Pius’ arguments were weak, and Gaspar could tell they were designed to placate him rather than any genuine conviction.

  “Just get it done,” Pius said with finality. “I can trust you.”

  Gaspar swallowed, but nodded. “You can.”

  ***

  “Hahahaha!” Valerio laughed heartily, his feet up on the table as he read a piece of a paper. “Have you read what happened to this bishop in the midst of his sermon? They threw wild oats at him.” He shook his head in amusement. “I’m very glad you stayed, you know that? I’d been so bored lingering in this posh place.”

  Isabella, meanwhile, wasn’t quite so jovial. Rather, she felt a little sick to her stomach.

  “I think I should stop this, somehow,” she said, and Valerio looked over at her in surprise. “Things are getting out of hand. I didn’t expect… such contagion,” she muttered quietly. “It’s spread beyond the capital, now.”

  “The arsonist learns that fires can spread,” Valerio said glibly.

  “There could be serious problems because of this. People could get hurt. So don’t laugh it off,” Isabella insisted. “I didn’t think it would end up like this,” she said in disbelief.

  “It’s like I told you,” Valerio said, sitting up and regarding her seriously. “You’re more capable than you think.”

  Isabella didn’t say anything, but eventually shook her head. “I need to stop this right away. The church is sufficiently rattled. We’re entirely unconnected. We can move ahead with the auction house.”

  Valerio rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “You know what my father said about storms? He’d put me up on his big shoulders, and we’d go out and stand on the edge of the bow.” Valerio changed his voice into something gruffer, with a different accent. “He’d say, ’My boy, never let a tempest take you broadside, lest she roll you over like a babe in a cradle. Keep the bow or stern to the waves—if you must run before the wind, do so steady and sure. A wavering hand on the tiller is a death sentence.’”

  Isabella stared. “I… don’t know ships,” she confessed.

  Valerio cleared his throat. “If you’re in a storm, don’t get hit from the side. Ride the waves head-on, or flee with your back turned.” He leaned back. “My father was an excellent captain. If he had my powers? Please. He’d be unstoppable.”

  Isabella considered his point, but another thought came to her head. “Did he really sound like that?”

  “He sounded more like Randolph,” Valerio laughed and leaned back in his chair. “Had that accent. You’ve found yourself in stormy seas, sure. Whatever choice you make, I’ll support. But you need to face it head-on, or turn your back with conviction. If you take half-measures…”

  “I’ll be rolled over like a babe in a cradle,” she said, nodding.

  Valerio smiled broadly. “Yes.”

  Isabella pondered those words. Should she strike deeper at the church, at Pius? Or should she accept this as the victory she wanted and move on?

  As they sat, the doors opened, and Solomon walked in. “Your Grace,” he said, dipping his head politely. “Knight-Commander Gaspar is here.”

  Valerio glowered. “That fop? The inquisition was called off.”

  “He seemed to very urgently want to speak to Her Highness Isabella,” Solomon said, looking her way.

  Valerio looked to her, clearly concerned.

  “I never put myself at risk of being caught,” Isabella said, knowing what he was thinking. “This morning, he was clueless. I don’t see how…”

  “Don’t want you to be alone with him,” Valerio said in a low voice. “You’ve told me yourself he’s Pius’ man.”

  Isabella looked at him evenly. “Then meet him with me,” she said.

  ***

  Roderick stepped off a boat agilely, then turned back around to look at who came with him. She was a tall older woman with great curling blonde locks, a bow on her back, and clothes suited for riding. She crossed the plank, looking around the harbor like a curious child before focusing on Roderick.

  Her name was Veronica. She was Valerio’s mother, brought back from the land of the elves.

  “It’s been some time since I’ve been in the capital. What’s she like, this woman my son is interested in?” Veronica asked, her golden eyes sharp and shrewd. “She must be very pretty to make my boy indulge as he has.”

  “She’s very beautiful,” Roderick said patiently. “I haven’t known her long enough to assess her character.”

  Veronica opened a parasol, holding it above her head as she walked down the docks. "Not quite certain why you brought me here. You overestimate my influence. A heart set upon ruin is deaf to wiser voices."

  “I want you to remind him of everything that’s at stake,” Roderick continued. “You’ve been among my people. You can tell him what he’s protecting.”

  "If he would not heed my counsel when he was cradled in my arms, what hope have I now?" she continued.

  Roderick stopped and looked at her firmly. “Please, Veronica. I fear he’s losing focus. I don’t want to see his soul broken because we believe he’s a threat.”

  Veronica’s cold face was shadowed by that of the parasol. Eventually, she nodded. “Fine, but I promise nothing. I’m looking forward to meeting her.”